Monolith's Call
by FitzInnazone
Summary: In which two souls are taken by the Monolith, and one more is left behind... for a time.


Originally written for Tumblr; Larch's, Foxglove's, and Foster's profiles can be found on my blog .com

When Larch first mentions the voice in her head, how it calls to her even in her dreams, Foxglove can't understand. There's no voice, he tells her, just us. But she persists.

"Come on, listen properly!"  
"Stare North for a bit, then you'll hear."  
"It sucks that you can't hear this… It's wonderful…"

As time goes by, she praises the voice more and more, and Foxglove begins to feel more uneasy, especially when Larch mentions needing to head to the centre of the Zone. He hasn't been there himself, and tales told by more experienced Stalkers are enough to put him off for life, but the way Larch speaks of it… It's like getting there is a matter of life and death.

Maybe it is.

Foxglove tries his best to dissuade her, finding distractions, missions, anything to take her mind off the call, and it works. Temporarily, at least. Then Larch starts getting angry, snapping whenever Foxglove comes up with another job for them; "Can't that wait? We have more important things to do! Tell that scientist to fuck off and find a merc or something."

When he sees there's no stopping her, Foxglove gives up and simply follows; if he can't prevent her going deeper into the Zone, at least he can be there to protect her. It goes well. Larch is happier, cheerier, stops snapping and getting mad, and for that Foxglove is thankful. But he can't shake the sinking feeling when he catches Larch sitting bolt upright in the middle of the night, staring North, scratching a single word into the ground over and over again: Monolith.

Things get even worse when they run into another gripped by this same madness; he calls himself Foster, and he seems friendly enough, but there's something off about the way he steers every conversation towards this mysterious Monolith. He and Larch stay up late into the night, talking about the voice, what it says to them and what they've heard, and Foxglove begins to hate that voice. He begins to hate the Monolith, too, and by fuck he hates Foster.

But there's nothing he can do; in his heart he knows that. If he fights back again and tries to stop her, Larch will vanish into the Zone with her new friend. The resentment bottled up within him grows, silent and malignant, until the night when he wakes up to find Larch and Foster donning their packs. "Where are you going?" he asks them (although he thinks he already knows the answer).

"To the Monolith." Larch replies, smiling. "It's time. We have to go now."  
"But _you_ can't." Foster adds. "You haven't been called, so you can't come with us. The Monolith hasn't chosen you."

The hate built up inside him begins to spill over into his voice when Foxglove snaps back, voice full of venom: "You can't stop me. She's not going anywhere with you."  
"Foxglove… Aurel, sweetie, it's okay." Larch's voice is like honey, soothing the burning rage instantly. "Look at me." He does, staring into the deep blue eyes he loves so much. "It'll be okay… Everything will be okay… Trust me."  
"I trust you, Bex, I do…" he murmurs back.

And then something hard thuds into the back of his skull, and Foxglove's vision goes black.

"Everything will be okay…"

When he awakes he is alone. There's no sign of Larch or Foster anywhere, no tracks, no trail, nothing. Even when he climbs a tree and calls out to Larch as loud as he can, voice echoing over the hills and fields, there is no response. His heart breaks to the thought "She's gone forever."

Or not.

Foxglove sees her out of the corner of his eye while travelling, months later, a lone Stalker sitting by a campfire in the middle of nowhere. At first he's content to continue on his way, (he has places to be, after all), but something makes him stop. A tug in his chest pulls him back, and he finds himself striding towards the little fire. He's about five feet away when it hits him like a sack of bricks.

It's her. Yes, half her face is covered by burn scarring, and the look in her eyes as she peers out of her hood is dull and cold, but it's definitely her; "Larch!". He steps forward quickly, arms outstretched to envelope his dear wife in a hug… only for his blood to run ice-cold when she shrinks away from him, staring like he's some stranger.

"Larch? Bex? What're you doing? It's me."

She won't even look at him now, prodding at the ground with a small stick, like he isn't even there. Even when he sits down beside her, rattling off pet-names, memories, everything he can think of that may get a response, she just sits there. Silent.

He's out of ideas now. She hasn't said a single word, hasn't stopped poking at the ground, nothing. Chest aching, on the verge of tears, Foxglove does the only other thing he can think of: he reaches out and takes her hand.

This time he gets a reaction.

Not flinching, although that's what he'd expected. Larch pauses, attention snapping from the divots in the ground, to the hand clasping hers. No, not their hands… Something on their hands. Rings. Wedding rings.

Foxglove could've slapped himself for being so dense, for not thinking of that before, but he doesn't. Instead he watches as Larch slips her hand out of his to hold them side-by-side, comparing the ring on her finger to the ring on his. They match, of course; Larch's idea, and Foxglove's never been more thankful for her love of clichés.

They stay there for hours as the sky grows dark above them and the fire begins to go out. When he realises just how late it's getting, Foxglove risks moving. He stands, slowly, twisting his hand again to clasp Larch's, and she follows, still apparently entranced by their rings. It's small, but it's something. Despite everything, Foxglove feels a glimmer of hope and allows it to fill him up.

He doesn't think of Foster, or what became of him.  
He doesn't think of what could've possibly happened at the centre of the Zone.

He doesn't think to look back at the fire, or closer examine the marks Larch made on the ground. Words, the same one, written over and over again: Monolith.


End file.
